The the Elephant

by Peter Carnavas

  Then she saw something else. Two tiny letters carved into one of the legs.

  ‘Is that—’ She ran her fingers over the letters.

  ‘Your mum,’ Grandad said, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘They’re her initials.’

  ‘But why are they there?’

  Freddie pawed at her legs and Grandad squeezed her arm.

  ‘Because she made it,’ he said, though the words got stuck somewhere in his throat.

  A Plan

  Olive held the pieces of the elephant in her hands and thought of all the things that had filled her life – both grey and colourful – in the past few months.

  The typewriter and the record player. The paper planes and the pigeon. She thought of Freddie and the tortoise. Arthur’s books, her mother’s old bike, and her father’s elephant.

  As she looked at the cracked pieces of clay in her hands, a beautiful, broken thing made by her mother, she talked with Grandad.

  They talked about her mother. Her father. And they talked about a plan to get rid of her father’s elephant.

  Rainbow

  There were only a few weeks of school left. Olive told Arthur all about her plan to chase the elephant away. It was an exciting scheme, made up of all the things that Grandad had used to colour Olive’s life: paper planes, ‘Side by Side’, and some old and wonderful things, too.

  ‘Do you really think it will work?’ Arthur said, peeling a squashed banana. ‘Do you really think it’ll get rid of the elephant?’

  Olive bit into her salad wrap.

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of it hanging around. So big and heavy and grey.’

  ‘Oh!’ yelled Arthur, dropping his banana. ‘That reminds me – I wanted to show you something.’

  He sprinted towards the classroom and returned a moment later, carrying The Big Book of Elephants.

  ‘Look at this!’ he said, flipping to a page near the back of the book.

  It was a photograph of an elephant that stretched across a double page. The strange thing was, the elephant wasn’t grey. It was painted in every bright colour imaginable – yellow and green and purple and red, orange and blue and sugary pink. The colours were painted in patterns and swirls, forming leaves and flowers, stars and crescent moons. Sparkling jewellery hung from the elephant’s ears and a golden blanket was draped over its back.

  ‘Whoa,’ she gasped. ‘That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever—’

  ‘They paint them in India,’ he said. ‘For a competition.’ His eyes twinkled and he added something that sounded familiar. ‘Just goes to show – they’re not all grey.’

  Olive smiled as she remembered the pigeon.

  Then it all came together quite simply in her mind: the rainbow elephant, her mother’s broken clay, and the plan to cheer up her father.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Chasing the

  Elephant Away

  It was Saturday morning.

  Olive peeked through the doorway at her father sleeping, though he was beginning to stir. He rolled slowly to one side and stretched a leg under the sheet. He twitched as a light breeze touched his face and he opened an eye.

  A yellow paper plane was tied to the ceiling fan above his bed, spinning around, flying a perfect circle through the air. He smiled, sat up and found another paper plane resting on his blanket. There was something written on it. He unfolded the paper and Olive knew what he would see, because she had made it herself. There were flowers, stars and birds drawn in felt pen around the outside of the page and there was a message in the middle, punched onto the page by an old typewriter.

  He swung himself out of bed and Olive tiptoed outside before he could see her. She waited under the tree with Grandad as her father opened the back door. He padded down the steps, stopped on the grass and looked at the jacaranda. His mouth fell open and a breathy laugh escaped when he saw hundreds of coloured paper planes hanging from its branches. They twisted and twirled and pirouetted in the breeze. There were purple planes, orange planes, blue, green, yellow and red.

  It was as if the great tree had sprouted flowers of every colour: sharp, pointy paper-plane-shaped flowers, flitting and fluttering about.

  Under the tree was a small table and chairs, set with plates and cups and a tray of eggs, tomatoes and toast. Olive and Grandad sat there grinning. Still wearing crumpled pyjamas, her father walked over to them.

  ‘This is … lovely,’ he said.

  He sat down and they tucked in. The scrambled eggs warmed Olive’s tummy and she looked at what surrounded her: the colourful planes flipping in the breeze above their heads, the soft grass tickling her feet under the table, and, of course, her father.

  She watched the morning light colour his dry, whiskery, Saturday-morning face. The plan seemed to be working. He certainly looked happy and at that moment she couldn’t imagine the elephant anywhere near.

  Still, she had to make sure.

  She wanted to see the elephant lumber away, disappear, forever.

  When their plates had been scraped clean, Olive wiped her mouth with a napkin and offered her hand to her father.

  ‘Dad,’ she said, trying to remember the exact words Grandad had taught her. ‘Would you care to dance?’

  Her father raised his eyebrows and laughed. Then he wrapped his big, rough hands around her fine fingers and they stood beneath the tree. As if from nowhere, music began to play, soft tinkling music floating on the air.

  Olive’s father turned and saw Grandad beside the old record player, in the shade on the grass.

  ‘Is that your record player?’ he said. ‘From upstairs?’

  Grandad nodded.

  Olive led her father out onto the big lawn. As the record played the first lines of ‘Side by Side’, they began to dance. She held her dad’s hand and moved her feet the way Grandad had shown her. It was hard to not step on her dad’s toes, but as the song went on she fumbled less and less and bounced smoothly on the grass. She started to giggle as she moved, and Dad laughed, too.

  Soon, they were laughing together as they danced all around, circling the trunk of the jacaranda, skipping around the trampoline, dodging the tyre swing. The music rang out louder across the yard and Dad picked her up. She squealed as he dipped her upside down. He lifted her high and spun around in dizzying circles. Everything was a breathless blur – the paper planes, the jacaranda flowers, the house, the grass – they all went whirling by in a beautiful haze.

  Then the song ended and he slowed down and lowered her to the grass.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ she said.

  She skipped across the yard to Grandad’s shed, ducked inside and then came walking back towards her father, nursing something in her hands.

  She held it out as if she were presenting a crown to a new king.

  It was her mother’s clay elephant and it was no longer broken.

  The pieces had been glued back together and purple flowers sprouted from the hole in the top. Her father took it in his heavy hands and ran a finger over the initials on the leg.

  ‘I remember this,’ he said, turning it around. ‘But it’s much more colourful now.’

  He was right, because Olive had painted the elephant like a rainbow, with swirly leaves and flowers.

  She grinned and said, ‘They’re not all grey, Dad.’

  He crouched before her, his stubbly face close to hers, and hugged her tight.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  As he squeezed her close, Olive spotted something moving in the yard. It was big and heavy and grey. Her father’s elephant.

  Olive locked her arms around her father and watched the elephant head off across the grass and out of sight.

  It was gone.

  The Workshop

  On the final day of school, Olive and Arthur wandered towards the gate, making pl
ans to meet up in the holidays.

  ‘I still haven’t climbed your tree,’ said Arthur.

  ‘And I want a go on that squeeze box,’ said Olive.

  They reached the gate and Olive threw her arms around Grandad.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said.

  Her face shone as she noticed his purple backpack.

  They bounced along the footpath, singing ‘Side by Side’. By the time they had sung it seven times, they had reached an industrial street outside of town. It was full of sheds and machinery and rumbling trucks.

  They stopped outside a mechanic’s garage.

  ‘This looks like Dad’s workshop,’ said Olive. The office door was shut and the big metal roller door was down. ‘But … where is he?’

  ‘He … um …’ Grandad scratched his wispy white hair. ‘He’s somewhere else right now. But he wanted me to show you something.’

  He lifted the roller door and they stepped inside. It smelt of petrol and paint. Dirty rags were strewn about the place and somebody’s car sat in the middle of the workshop. Its bonnet was open, exposing greasy metal insides, like a patient on an operating table.

  Grandad flicked a switch and the workshop lit up.

  Olive saw the walls and her heart nearly stopped.

  They were covered with photographs of her: Olive as a baby, Olive starting school, on the trampoline, Olive leaping over a crashing wave at the beach. There were school photos, holiday photos and blurry nothing-much-at-all photos. In between the pictures, there were drawings that she had scribbled, from her early scrawls to recent sketches. There was hardly a spare spot on the walls.

  ‘Has it always been like this?’ she said.

  Grandad nodded. ‘For years and years.’

  As she staggered around the workshop, staring at the gallery, Olive realised why Grandad had brought her here today. He was sharing a secret. He had peeled back a curtain to show how her father really felt about her, how much he loved her. All this time, she hadn’t looked past his elephant and its big grey shadow. Now that it was gone, she could see the light that was hiding the whole time. She felt as if she had been lifted above the surface of the water, to see the whole ocean, full of the secrets her father kept inside.

  It was a wonderful feeling, but as she looked around the workshop, her smile fell away.

  ‘My bike’s not here,’ she mumbled, turning to Grandad. ‘And – where is Dad anyway?’

  He arched his eyebrows and patted his backpack.

  ‘There’s one more surprise,’ he said.

  The Surprise

  When Olive arrived home, she spotted Freddie circling and panting on the top step. She started towards him, but Grandad took her hand.

  ‘This way,’ he said with a wrinkly smile.

  He covered her eyes with his old hands and led her around the side of the house. Freddie scurried down the steps and trotted beside them. They reached the backyard and edged towards the jacaranda tree.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Grandad.

  Olive nodded.

  He took his hands away.

  ‘Ohhh!’ she gasped.

  Her breath escaped in shaky, excited bursts, because in front of her was a bike, shining in the afternoon sun.

  It was her bike.

  Her mother’s.

  She leant closer and ran her fingers along the frame and the stitching of the padded seat. She pinched the tyres, squeezed the handlebar grips and rang the bell.

  Ding!

  Just like the old typewriter.

  She stood up. ‘The bike’s here,’ she wondered aloud. ‘But where’s Dad?’

  ‘Up here.’

  The voice had come from overhead. A deep voice.

  She looked up into the branches of the jacaranda and there he was.

  Her father.

  He was sitting on one of the thicker limbs, holding a sleek white paper plane in his hands, grinning down at her.

  ‘Dad!’ she squealed. ‘What are you doing up there?’

  ‘Watch this,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘I worked out how to make them.’

  He flung the plane out of the tree. It cut a graceful curve through the air, then spiralled smoothly to land on the grass.

  Olive beamed up at her father. Her heart drummed like butterfly wings and her hands shook.

  Was this really happening?

  Was she dreaming?

  No, perhaps this was just what it felt like when wishes came true. Her father had climbed the tree. He had made a paper plane. Fixed the bike.

  All of these things had been impossible when the elephant was still around.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Dad, jumping down from the branches. ‘Have a ride.’

  Grandad pulled her helmet out of the purple backpack. She strapped it on and gripped the handlebars, threw one foot onto a pedal and pushed off the grass with the other. The tyres wove a wobbly line along the grass. Then she pedalled faster and rode smooth rings around the whole yard, lapping the trampoline and the tree. She rode faster, splitting the wind. She felt as if she were flying, like a perfectly folded plane soaring through the afternoon sky.

  As she rode around and around, she heard cheers and clapping from the two grown-ups standing in the middle of the grass, and that familiar tingly feeling sparkled inside her. She had chased away their grey animals.

  The tortoise was gone. The elephant, too.

  It was then that Olive slowed down and stopped the bike.

  There was one more animal that had still been hanging around.

  One more she hadn’t told anybody about, but had kept to herself.

  A small grey dog with short legs and an extra-long tail.

  Goodbye

  Olive rested the bike on the grass and walked around the side of the house to the front gate, where the others couldn’t see her. She imagined Freddie sitting at the gate, wagging that long tail of his and looking up at her.

  She crouched down and cuddled him close. He licked her face. A single tear slid down her cheek and Freddie licked that, too. They had shared these moments so many times – whenever Olive had fallen or cried or thought of the mother she had never known, whenever she was lost or lonely or just plain sad. In these moments, she had always imagined Freddie snuffling, whimpering, keeping close, keeping her warm.

  Now, as much as she loved him, she knew she wouldn’t need him anymore. She was happy and strong enough for life without him.

  She whispered into his furry ear.

  ‘Everything’s okay,’ she said. ‘You can go now.’

  She squeezed him one more time and then let go. She pictured him turn and trot away down the footpath, his tail held high.

  The soft image grew smaller and smaller, until, finally, he was gone.

  Perfect

  The next morning, Olive and Dad lay on the trampoline, watching the leaves of the jacaranda swish and sway above their heads. Grandad was stomping around the pumpkin patch, picking grasshoppers off the big, furry leaves.

  Dad wore his stubbly Saturday-morning face and Olive stroked his prickly chin as she talked.

  She told him all about the old and wonderful things at school.

  She told him about the beautiful pigeon and throwing paper planes off the second-hand shop.

  She even told him about the grey animals.

  Dad lay still and listened as the stories flowed. She had held them in for so long and now she could let them out, like caged birds sweeping up into the bright sky.

  When she had finished, he squeezed her hand. ‘You know, I was thinking that perhaps we should get an animal of our own,’ he said. ‘A real one, I mean.’

  ‘A pet?’ Olive sprang up onto her knees.

  She dreamt up all sorts of exotic pets.

  ‘Could we get a giraffe?’ she said. ‘An orangutan?’
r />   Dad frowned.

  ‘What about a penguin?’ she said, bouncing on her knees. ‘A toucan? Meerkat? A baby panda?’

  Dad scruffed up her hair and laughed.

  ‘Slow down, slow down,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we start with a dog and think about pandas later.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, lying back down.

  ‘The first thing we’ll need to do is think of a name,’ he said. ‘Can you think of a good name for a dog?’

  Olive snuggled into her father’s side. She closed her eyes and thought of her old friend, her small grey dog with the short legs and that extra-long tail.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a name that’ll be perfect.’

  Acknowledgements

  I’m so proud that this book has my name on it, but it should have many more. I didn’t really do it alone.

  Thank you to Kristina Schulz, for believing in this story from the very start, when I shakily handed you my early chapters and mumbled the idea that was still growing in my head. I’m so grateful for the attention you have given this little book.

  To Kristy Bushnell, thank you for spotting all the tiny things that slipped me by, for crying in all the right spots, and for keeping me to schedule. I’d still be drawing elephants if it wasn’t for you.

  Thanks to Mark MacLeod, who turns editing into a beautiful art. You helped me polish this story into something much brighter than I ever imagined. I enjoyed reading your corrections so much that I almost wanted more. Almost.

  Huge thanks to Jo Hunt for a wonderful design and for tolerating my indecision about the cover.